


A Victim of Circumstance

by Ahatmadeofcheese



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination Plot(s), Blackmail, Gen, Lightsaber Battles (Star Wars), Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious Being an Asshole, Treachery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27463369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahatmadeofcheese/pseuds/Ahatmadeofcheese
Summary: "That's not important. What we need to know is if you're in or not." Phasma and Armitage share another look."What do you want our help with?" The boy smiles."Why, we're going to kill the Supreme Leader of course." Armitage slumps in his seat and puts his head in his hands."Oh stars, if that's all." he says sarcastically, "And here I thought you were going to ask for something difficult. Oh, we'll get right on that, no worry.""In case you need more convincing, Hux, our plan involves a shuttle that your father will be on meeting an unfortunate end. He'll be dead, just like you want, along with the Supreme Leader. And you, Phasma is it? All of that, along with our disappearance, will create a nice little power vacuum for you to slither into. Everyone wins."
Relationships: Armitage Hux & Phasma, Armitage Hux & Phasma & Kylo Ren & Rey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3
Collections: Fic In A Box





	A Victim of Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moreless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreless/gifts).



He stands at attention beside his father. Attention. Dignity. Obedience. Armitage could repeat the mantra in his sleep. Would his father be impressed, he wonders, if he knew how much I’ve learned from him? Experience tells him no. His father is not impressed by simple strength of the mind. Sure, he values intelligence, but not without strong will. _A crab must have a brain so it does not run towards its hunters. Yes, brainless crab is no use,_ the stern man had once said, _but what is is one without a shell? Dead._ Armitage wasn’t too sure the crab metaphor was the best way of putting it, but he did agree with his father. The best offense was intelligence and the strength to do what needed to be done. Unfortunately, Armitage had an ample supply of the former but a scarcity of the latter.

If his father would find fault with him for a weakness of the will, then Armitage would make up for it by excelling in all other areas. He pushes back against impressive displays by his father's surrogate stormtroopers. Blot out the darkness of what he couldn’t do with the floodlights of what he could. Still, that hardly matters in situations like the current one. Situations where his father can’t help but be reminded of all Armitage has failed to accomplish. But he’s forgotten about his father for a second, watching the demonstration.

The training room is separated from the watchers by a thin pane of transparisteel. Behind it, two children perhaps a year or two younger than Hux are doing... something. Training droids are covered in burns or scratches as their blades-of-light swish through the air with a deadly grace.

Dancing. That’s the only way he can think of to describe it. The black-haired boy and the solemn eyed girl are dancing. They stand back to back at the center of the hall, taking on perhaps twenty droids. The girl makes a long slash down a droid on her side, then ducks as boy’s blade swings back on its way to the next blow. She comes back up right in time to parry a slash to his head, and he guards her right as she performs a complicated maneuver to reach the droid on her left.

For one, heart-stopping moment it looks as if one of the trainer’s buzzing electrostaffs will make contact with the boy’s shoulder, and then the girl is flipping elegantly through the air to meet it, and the boy is twisting around. In about fifteen minutes the droids have all been beaten off, but the dancers do not move, holding their sabers in a ready position. The girl’s is high on her body, her weight held low and her blade at an angle with her torso. The boy’s is held perpendicular to the ground by his face, his off hand following its path.

Armitage is drawn back into the observation room by the stirring of the hooded horror in his high seat. His father’s chair is much lower, and Armitage has been left standing.

“Enough,” croaks the rough voice of the hooded horror, “you’ve embarrassed me sufficiently for one day.” He turns his terrifying glazed eyes on the officer to his right, a man called Junkan. “What did you think of my pupils’ performance, General?” Junkan sits up straighter, nervous.

“They posses much raw talent, Surpreme Leader.” The hooded horror pauses for a moment, just enough to make the general uncomfortable.

“I agree. General Hux?” The horror’s attention is now only a few inches away from him. Armitage tries not to fidget and instead focuses on the boy and the girl, who have moved to a kneeling position, blades at their sides, facing the horror. His father’s already ramrod posture seems to grow even straighter.

“Their display is impressive, but lacking finesse. They are entirely too dependent on one another. _Armitage_ could defeat one should he fight them on their own, and his lungs are as weak as a newborn tauntaun’s.” Armitage flinches, both for his father and the insult. Should the Surpreme Leader dislike his response, he could end up a singed bit of upholstery on the observation room floor. He chances a look at the horror’s face. A terrifying, tooth-bearing grin covers it.

“Do you think so?” His gaze flicks to Armitage, and there’s something about it that makes it impossible to look away. He’s heard stories that the surpreme leader can read minds. Maybe that’s what he’s doing. Desperately, he attempts to cleanse his of every improper thought he’s ever had. It doesn’t work. “Young Armitage, is it? What did you think of the demonstration?”

His father is practically bristling with contained lectures. _Don’t screw this up_ , Armitage can hear him saying, _don’t ruin my position._ He takes a deep breath, considers his words carefully, then says,

“It was beautiful. Like... like a dance. Sir!” He adds the last bit hastily, out of instinct more than anything else. To Armitage’s horror, the Surpreme Leader chuckles.

“The young are easily impressed, are they not?” When the Surpreme Leader laughs, everybody does. Armitage’s soul sags with relief. He’s not finished yet, though. “And do you think you could defeat them, as your father suggests?” Not trusting his tongue, Armitage shakes his head no. The grin of the hooded horror takes on a more sinister, devious cast. “Let us see.” Cold water floods Armitage’s veins. _Is this how I die?_ He registers the Surpreme Leader calling the children up in the back of his mind. They enter the observation room from an unseen door and resume kneeling in front of the high seat.

“Do you think you could defeat this General’s son?” The boy’s cold, brown eyes rake over him, taking in his very soul. The girl’s assessment is no less peircing, but a little slower. After a pause, with no perceptible communication, the boy speaks.

“Without a doubt, master.” The horror grins.

“On your own?” A stony cast crosses the boy’s features, just a flicker. Then it’s gone and replaced with emotionless neutrality.

“Even then.” The surpreme leader turns to the girl. Her hair is brown and bound in a long plait down her back. He longs to catch her eye, or the boy’s, and beg them to not kill him, please, but their eyes never leave their master or a fixed point in the distance.

“You will face the boy.” He turns back to the dark-haired dancer. “Give him your saber.” Another stony flicker, but the boy turns to Armitage and hands him the strange, metal weapon. Their eyes lock finally, just for a moment. Armitage is no stranger to eyes. Politics require a certain skill in nonverbal communication. He can tell exactly what this pair saying. _Hurt her,_ this boy is warning, _and you will feel pain_. Slightly, so no one can see but the boy and maybe the hooded horror, Armitage nods. The face flashes again, then the boy’s eyes go back to the fixed point in the distance.

Armitage drifts on autopilot out into the training room. The weight of the saber’s grip in his hand is large and clumsy, feeling so much less than the elegant instrument of the demonstration. They take up positions five feet apart, the girl in her poised ready position and Armitage in a crude imitation of what he’s seen before. Knees bent, blade diagonal from the him. If he had a blade. Turning on the saber is a bridge he’ll burn later.

“Press the button three-quarters up to ignite it.” The words are spoken quietly. It can’t have been the girl, can it? But there’s no one else in the training room. There’s not much time to ponder this development, however, because the Surpreme hooded-horror has just given the order to ‘Begin!’.

It’s not a dance. It’s not even a fight. Once he’s got the saber lit, the battle is a blur. The girl leaps with tooka grace through the air and slams her fiery blade against his. All he can do is keep his arms up and pray. Every moment of every fight he’s ever seen is clamoring to be heard, to be helpful, but none are. To top it all off, the girl is fast. Inhumanly so. What meager offense Armitage can provide is undercut by her immediate countermeasure to any blow he can begin to try. It’s almost a relief when the girl sweeps his legs out from under him and points her blade at his throat.

One of the training room’s lights is right behind her head from this angle, forming a halo. He can hear the horror call ‘Halt!’. The glowing strip of heatless fire disappears from his view and the girl reaches out a hand to help him up. It’s cold, icy cold, and covered in callouses. She lets him go once he’s hauled to his feet. To save himself from thinking he searches for his borrowed weapon, then follows the girl back to the observation room.

“And what did you think of this young man’s performance?” It registers that all of his father’s friends are laughing at him. A look at the man himself reveals seething anger. Armitage winces internally. He’ll pay for the scorn later with bruises and a tongue lashing, courtesy of his father. Numbly, he returns the saber- the hilt, as the girl calls it- to its rightful owner. His brown eyes are unreadable.

“Did you still find it beautiful, Armitage?” The horror grins, addressing him directly. “I have to say, that was not the impressive combat I was expecting based on your father’s assessment. Still, not everyone can last more than a few seconds against my granddaughter. She makes everyone look bad.” His eyes flick to the dark-haired boy. “Except for him, ironically. Perhaps I should train you as another one of my assassins. Tell me, child, do you have the Force?”

“The what, sir?” The seething anger of his father rises. Armitage can feel it. There will definitely be bruises. And not just on his ego. The Surpreme Leader grins.

“Apparently your education is lacking as well. I’d love to offer you a proper explanation, and maybe a demonstration, but an old man grows weary of all this excitement. Another time.” He turns to address the room. “If you’d leave us, gentlemen?” Everyone flees the room. Not leaves, not exits, _flees_. Even though they act like they enjoy the Surpreme Leader’s company and laugh at his jokes, they all probably secretly call him a horror like Armitage does.

Once they’re back at their apartments, Armitage shrinks back as his father explodes.

“Making a fool of us in front of the surpreme leader? Where’s your fight, boy?” The blow catches him in the face. He presses a hand to it, but does not cry out. “‘A dance.’” Here, his father gives a disgusted snort. “Go to your room. I can’t stand to look at you.” He doesn’t go to his room, though. Instead he slips out and back into the halls, finds a quiet laundry room a few levels down, crawls behind an industrial washer, and cries.

 _I thought I was going to die,_ Armitage reflects, _but instead of saying ‘thank the stars’ and hugging me, he hits me in the face._ It’s no secret that the Supreme Leader kills and maims people for the hell of it. It’s also no secret that it’s pathetic to sit there and cry behind a washer, knees pulled to his chest, but Armitage feels pathetic. Maybe acting like it will make him feel better. So he stays there for an hour or two and just lets it all out.

He’s startled when he hears footsteps drawing nearer to his hiding spot. The tears are quickly stifled and hastily wiped on the back of his sleeve, though there’s no helping his eyes, which are probably red. Who can it be? A laundry droid? A stormtrooper? His father?

It’s none of the above. Standing in front of his only exit are the two dancers. The Supreme Leader’s assassins in training. They stare at him with their piercing eyes, the boy with crossed arms and barely contained anger and the girl with mild interest. No one moves for a moment.

“You’re not crying because I beat you, are you?” Armitage shakes his head and takes a deep breath.

“No. I’m crying because...” he trails off. “You don’t care.” The dark-haired boy nods, causing the girl to punch him in the shoudler.

“Well, we don’t!” he protests. She rolls her eyes.

“That’s not something you say to people, laser-brain.” The boy sighs.

“Why are you here?” The dark haired boy looks at him.

“That’s a great question. Rey wanted to say thanks. For making her look good.” Armitage lets out a short, shaky laugh.

“It wasn’t exactly a challenge. I should be thanking _you_ for not killing me!” He sighs. “I- uh, meant what I said. Your fighting was... awesome.” The boy grins.

“Of course it was.” The grin fades. “We still paid for it, though.” Armitage raises an eyebrow.

“How? Why?”

“The same way you did.” The girl, Rey, interjects, gesturing to his face. “In pain. We can get through it, though. With the bond. You don’t have that. So I guess we came here to pay you your share.” She scoots along the wall, then presses a hand to his face. For a moment, nothing happens, then the sharp pain of the blow to his cheek melts away. It feels like waking up but a million times better. When she withdraws her hand, the pain is gone.

“Thank you.” he says. Rey and the boy exchange a look.

“You're welcome.” She sighs. “Goodbye, Armitage.” He nods. This isn’t just a simple pleasantry. It’s a my-debts-are-paid, see-you-never kind of deal. And once they walk away, he tries not to think about the intensity in the boy’s eyes, the healing hand on his face. To forget the hum of the saber under his fingers. To ignore the strange look his father gives him after he walks in at three A.M. with no noticeable marks on his face. Sometimes, Armitage succeeds.

* * *

The datapad's starting to get hard to understand in front of him. Page after page of history notes and Armitage is _still_ woefully underprepared for the exam that's only a week away. He's half-tempted to ask if it's graded on the curve; which would still be useless because there are four students in the entire class at Wisdom, the chief among the outer-rim bases of the First Order. And there's a gala planned for later in the evening that will be full of other socially awkward officers children who've never been given leave to have fun. Before his father plucked him from the kitchen and his mother's warm quarters and warmer eyes, Armitage knew how to talk. How to laugh. How to find fun with few materials.

A few days away from his friends had solved that. The officer's children were stiff and proper and small in number. None of them wanted to associate with an, ahem, lowborn (bastard, they had whispered, thinking themselves outside his earshot) child like him. So he stopped trying and started his next great quest: obtaining the approval of his father. He'd scrapped that plan two years ago when it became clear that nothing he could do would ever be enough.

His new plan? Outshine his father. That one... well, it's still in the works. It's hard to outshine someone who refuses to die. So for now he plays the part of obedient student, biding his time until he can find something that works. 

Armitage sighs, flicks off the datapad, and glances at his chrono. It's far too early to get dressed for the gala, but he can't really stomach another watered-down page of _Factors That Lead to the Rebel Victory at_ _Yavin_ or _The Systematic Kidnapping of Force Sensitive Children by the Jedi of the_ _Republic._ So instead of perusing another page of _The Abridged 'Baby Ludi' Case_ , he stands up and stretches. His private datapad calls to him from his sock-drawer. His one good friend in the whole place, an outdated med droid named Kayzee who got scrapped for spare parts when Armitage was eleven, sliced it so that the First Order's IT couldn't track him. At that age he mainly though it was cool to have and gleefully searched clever things like 'boob' and 'poop' with his newfound holonet access. Several years wiser Armitage knows it's considered a traitorous item.

Sure, it's nice to have the freedom to look into things slightly more risqué than a simple 'boob', but he also uses it for his _real_ history reading. There's something about reading Rebellion pilot's accounts of Endor and perusing old, footnote-heavy base schematics that turns the dry, filtered narration of his history books into fascinating legends. It's like listening to old Raul from the kitchen's stories of spice running versus reading his arrest reports. But there has been one side effect; history is no longer black-and-white.

His mother's whispered stories of the valor of Jedi knights and the terrors of an oppressive Empire, told late at night in a darkened room, had been one thing. Fables easily dismissed by even seven-year-old Armitage as bedtime stories. But the recently-unearthed _Petition of 2,000_ in its full, unaltered glory, throws some serious doubt onto his long-held beliefs. A group of cowardly traitors, weak-willed and power-hungry? Or a delegation of well-respected senators attempting to preserve their freedoms? An article written by a historian about what _really_ happened the night of Order 66 is as historically significant as it is disturbing. Were the Jedi traitors or martyrs?

This new and interesting perspective may have contributed to Armitage's conclusion that his father has to go. Especially ever since Cardinal... well, did whatever you want to call what happened to him. Armitage strongly suspects that his father had a hand in that, too. If his father is willing to kill sons who've outgrown their usefulness... well, it's easier to think about Old Republic court cases.

In the midst of Armitage's investigation into Baby Ludi, there's a knock on his door. Two sharp reports against the wooden paneling. His father? An attendant? IT coming to arrest him for his search history? He shoves the illicit datapad back in its sock and shoves it back in his dresser before heading over to the door. Before he can admit the visitor, however, it slides open on its own. _They're definitely here to arrest me._

Or are they? Standing in his doorway is a glowering, half-muscle, half-leg boy that Armitage has never seen before. His dress is anything but regulation uniform; dark grey pants, darker tunic, belt and obi, even a _cowl_ for god's sake. His skin is pale and his eyes brown, with hair to match his dark clothing. There's something vaguely familiar about him, but the specifics evade Armitage.

"Erm, Hello?" he says, attempting to maintain proper etiquette. The boy ignores the overtures.

"Room 211, level H, green door. Knock twice. Be there in an hour." With that, he turns and marches in the other direction.

"What? Room- knock- excuse me!" But he's gone. _Faster than he looks_. Armitage wants to write it off as nothing. A new transfer put up to it by the preppy officer's kids, an initiation of sorts. _Bait the Bastard. Annoy the Armitage. Heckle the Hux_. He'll end up in an empty room, or looking for a non-existent one. Perhaps this is an underhanded attempt to keep him away from the gala.

Still, there's the nagging feeling of familiarity, of a name half-remembered, a face half-seen. And even looking for a fake room or a dangerous one is more fun than attending a gala. So, forty-five minutes later, Armitage finds himself dressed down and on his way to the green-doored Room 211, level H.

As he draws closer, the urge to return to his room and get ready for the gala is strong. If he turns back now, there will still be time to pretend like nothing happened. But the instinct that he's doing the right thing is still strong. There are no footsteps or muffled giggles as he approaches, so it appears as if they've forgone the 'bucket of water balanced over the door' trick. And, what do you know, there's an actual green door with a numbered plaque reading '211'. Hesitantly, he stretches out a hand and knocks. Twice.

It's almost scary how quickly the door slides open after that. Inside is a square room about ten feet by five, dominated by a massive conference table and some standard-issue chairs. There are three other people there; the boy who summoned him, a similarly dressed girl, and a second young woman who he immediately recognizes. Phasma. One of his father's hand-picked trooper recruits who supposedly lacks all of Armitage's own shortcomings. She's dressed in certain sections of her armor, though her helmet is off. They exchange a nod as he walks in. Armitage hates everything she represents, of course, but she's also in good with the higher-ups. Could be a ticket to a foothold in the trooper training program once he's finished his studies.

The other two are completely unrecognizable. Or, would be. The boy is standing, arms crossed, and hanging from his belt is a very familiar weapon. A light saber. The vague memory of holding the thing comes back to him for a moment; the startling lightness, the noise that it made, the thrumming _pulse_ under his fingertips. Then he's back and shoving stupid, history-buff Armitage away and putting on his political face. These are the Supreme Leader's hidden apprentices, if he's identified the saber for what it is, and whenever he hears tell of _them_ someone has died. Usually in a very painful manner. No time for coy games. 

"What do you want?" This response elicits a laugh from the dark-haired boy.

"Rather blunt for an officer's kid, don't you think? I'm shocked you even had the agency to skip tonight's little gala." Armitage steams, but tries to maintain his calm. That light saber could be out and on, killing him in seconds. Right now, he's engaged in the most delicate type of negotiations. Not knowing what anyone wants is a liability. _Think._ It's what his father is always telling him to do. There must be another angle.

"And I'm surprised that the Supreme Leader's allowing his little pets to run around off leash." The words feel bitter in his mouth, not the words he wants to say. He tucks the guilt out of sight. _I don't owe them anything._ "Does he know you're here, I wonder? Would be a shame for you two to get in trouble with him." Something coils in the eye of the other boy, something dark and sick. The girl puts a hand on his arm.

"Sit down. Both of you. If we're going to come out of this alive we need to finish before my grandfather decides to look for us." Armitage almost raises an objection, but the dark-haired boy obeys her. Huh. Clearly, more is going on here than he thought. He sinks into a seat next to Phasma. She's potentially his only ally here, like how a hot knife might be your only ally if you happen to be bleeding out. Still, it's better to hold a shred of a card than no card at all. The girl looks Armitage directly in the eye. "We know about the rigged hatch."

To his pride, Armitage doesn't flinch. Phasma turns to him and raises an eyebrow.

"That was you? Should have known. Very sloppy." He struggles to keep his tone even.

"Perhaps I have the motive. Perhaps I don't. There isn't any proof that it wasn't a simple malfunction either way." The girl slides a holotape towards him. He presses the button on it and immediately feels all of his blood run cold. A security holo of the sabotage... that's dangerous. Very dangerous. Armitage sighs and drops his air. "Fine. I tried to kill my asshole of a father. Has the Supreme Leader finally decided that he won't let people murder their families anymore?" An edge creeps into his voice on the last part, and Armitage knows that he's given himself away. But when he glances up, the only look he finds is one of... understanding?

"We want your help, and your silence. In return, we'll help you kill your 'asshole of a father'." He looks at them suspiciously.

" _You_ want _my_ help with... something, in return for assassinating my father?" The dark-haired boy nods. Phasma folds her arms, her face an emotionless mask.

"And what about me? Why am I here? Do you expect me to stand around while you plot to murder Brendol Hux and whatever else you're doing that requires silence?" The girl turns to her.

"Of course not. You're going to help us, too." Phasma's hard eyes narrow.

"And why would I do that? There's nothing you could possibly blackmail me with. I could go turn you all in right now and reap the reward!" A flicker of satisfaction runs through the face of the other girl.

"We know about Parnassos." Armitage witnesses a sight he's never seen before; Phasma speechless. He has no idea what 'Parnassos' is, but it has to be pretty bad if it manages to shatter her carefully guarded exterior. After a few moments, she spits out,

"How do you even know about that?" The girl grins.

"That's not important. What we need to know is if you're in or not." Phasma and Armitage share another look.

"What do you want our help with?" The boy smiles.

"Why, we're going to kill the Supreme Leader of course." Armitage slumps in his seat and puts his head in his hands.

"Oh stars, if that's all." he says sarcastically, "And here I thought you were going to ask for something difficult. Oh, we'll get right on that, no worry."

"In case you need more convincing, Hux, our plan involves a shuttle that your father will be on meeting an unfortunate end. He'll be dead, just like you want, along with the Supreme Leader. And you, Phasma is it? All of that, along with our disappearance, will create a nice little power vacuum for you to slither into. Everyone wins." _Disappearance?_ Armitage sneaks a glance at Phasma. _Holy hell, she can't actually be considering this? Can I?_

"You seem awfully sure that this plan is going to work. Can't the Supreme Leader see the future? Won't he see through all our attempts?" The girl locks eyes with him, and he can see something in them, a strength. _She, at least, is convinced that we'll prevail_. No, that she and her co-apprentice will prevail. _This is not a 'we' situation. At least, not yet._

"We wouldn't have involved others if we didn't think it would work, Hux. We're going to kill him. We don't have a choice." Armitage looks to Phasma.

"Do you mind if I have a talk with my associate for a moment?" Without waiting for a reply, he pulls Phasma into the corner of the closet-like room. "How bad is this Parnassos thing?" It's the most direct question he's asked her in years. A flicker goes over her face, an almost feral gleam coming to her eye.

"Do you remember Cardinal?" Armitage nods. "There's nothing linking me to his death right now, but let's just say... it would be better if that name didn't leave this room." Mentally, Armitage adds the word to his list of things to look into. _I guess_ that's _what happened to Cardinal_. He'd never _liked_ the stormtrooper, but he didn't deserve to die. Not like that. "Listen, Hux. This could be a good shot. If the Supreme Leader falls when no one's expecting it, taking over this base will be easy. Most of the command chain are old Imperial goons. Bribe the right people, kill the rest... we could rule take control of the First Order. _Together_." He's not naïve enough to actually trust her on that. In fact, Armitage is probably one of the right people to kill. Still, Phasma's logic is sound. His father dead, the Supreme Leader gone... this could be Armitage's chance to make a name for himself. To rise above.

When they return to the table, any further discussion of tactics and terms is mere preamble. Finally, the talk is done. There's an air of tense finality in the room as they all rise from the table.

"Are we all in agreement?" the girl asks. He still doesn't know her name, though he feels like he's heard it before.

"I believe so." And they all shake hands, hesitantly, as though they've just finished discussing a business deal. And, in a way, they have.

* * *

"Are you sure you know where we're going?" Armitage looks up from his datapad to the disguised Phasma beside him. She pushes a hover-cart that supposedly carries scanning equipment. They know better.

"Of course I know where I'm going." she snaps, "You'll get us in and I'll get these set up. The flaw in this plan is that fact that the Supreme Leader can practically smell out lies and treachery. If we're caught, those insipid apprentices won't do anything to help us." Armitage sighs internally. _How many times do I have to say it to get through your thick skull, woman?_

"They're handling him. I don't think we can back out at this point, especially not with all the dirt they have on us." The girl beside him sighs.

"I hate politics, sometimes. Just kill each other and get over it. Subtlety is useful. Sneaking around is how you get ahead. But the next time someone corners me with information, I'm stabbing them in the chest no matter how good their deal is." Armitage looks at Phasma. Trying to understand her is like trying to read old Alderaanian. You think you have it figured out, and then it turns out you made a mistake some lines ago and now your text makes no sense. He can't tell if she's actually off-put by the situation or if it's all just a show.

"I don't think I'll ever understand you, Phasma." He didn't really mean to say it out loud, but now that it's there he can't pull it back in. She regards him with a veiled expression for a moment or two.

"That's the point, Hux." she says finally, a hint of... amusement in her voice.

"You claim loyalty to the First Order. You claim to be thankful to my father. Yet here you are, planning treason against one and murder against the other." he continues, "Who are you? Who are you really?" The cart stops, and at first he thinks he's surprised her, but in reality they've just reached their destination. He helps her carry the scanner aboard the ship, keeps watch while she places the charges, slices into the computer and adjusts it just a little in the right direction.

It's not until they're leaving the ship, 'scanner' empty, that she finally replies.

"I'm a liar, Armitage. Just like you." She says it softly, lacking her usually, haughty tone. He turns to say something to her, but she's already set off at a brisk pace. By the time he catches up, neither of them mentions it. Once they're back in the supply closet, changing back into their normal uniforms in total darkness, he allows himself to relax. They've done it. Set the charges. It's safe.

And then he's pressed up against the wall, still half-hanging out of his jacket. Something cold and thrumming is pressed to his throat. A vibroblade?

"I was just thinking," Phasma says, her voice a harsh whisper in his ear, "that more than one person planting the charges was a liability. And more than anyone necessary knowing about Cardinal, well... that's just sloppy." A tremor runs through Armitage.

"So this is it, then?" He chokes out, pain slicing through him in a thin line across his throat. A laugh, and then the blade is gone. She scratched him, no more, no less.

"Oh, I won't kill you yet. Someone might notice something is off when Brendol's son turns up dead and then maybe the Order won't fall after all." Her voice drops then, low and threatening. "I want you to remember this. I'm the one holding the knife. You..." A thin tickle runs up his arm. The tip of the blade? Her finger? "are expendable."


End file.
